Chapter 37 Reeves
THIRTY-SEVEN
Reeves
The Final Stretch: The band plays louder near the end of the route. The second line dances harder. The procession saves something for the last blocks.
I set the phone down on the kitchen counter and stare at the screen for ten seconds before it goes black. The house stays quiet around me.
Maybe.
The word sits there, but I heard something underneath it. It wasn't hesitation, but consideration. The kind that means she's already leaning toward yes, but needs to feel like she chose it herself.
I walk to the living room and check the time on my watch. Three fifteen. If they come tonight, Benjy could see the bunker before dinner. If they come tomorrow, we could go to the museum and still get him back for whatever evening routine Charli runs.
My phone vibrates against the counter, and I'm back in the kitchen before the second ring, hoping it's Charli to say they're coming.
It's Gabe, and I can barely get the phone to my ear before I answer.
"Tell me you've got something."
"I think I do. Got a second?”
"Shoot."
"I didn't touch Medicaid. Started from the outside and worked in. Turns out Charli's business server's not locked down the way it should be, so I was able to get into her emails." Gabe's voice carries that edge it gets when he's found something he doesn't like.
I lean against the counter, phone pressed to my ear. His tone makes my shoulders tense, bracing for whatever he's about to tell me.
Next on my list is to make sure Charli has better cybersecurity. But first, this.
"Spit it out."
"I saw emails between Charli and a company called MedSouth Pediatric Partners about them wanting to acquire her practice. So I decided to dig a little more about them. And bingo."
I wait for him to finish.
"They're buying up smaller therapy practices all over the Gulf Coast region. When I got into their network, which was also so easy a middle school computer nerd could do, I found a treasure trove of shit."
"Spit it out, Gabe."
"I saw internal email chains about 'outreach timing' and 'flagged accounts.' They track smaller practices before they make acquisition offers, and then increase pressure when they don't say yes."
"Uh, huh."
"Get this. This guy, Dr. Henderson, shows up tied to Medicaid fraud escalations more than it should."
"I'm not reading between the lines, here."
"I can’t prove it. But the timing lines up with your girl's practice and others they had their sights on. Same timeline: They make an offer, if no bite, then a flag gets raised, pressure builds, and then they swoop in and save the day."
Your girl. The words stick for a second, but I push past them.
"So you think this Henderson guy filed a complaint so that Medicaid would flag Charli's practice to get her to sell to them?"
"I don't have proof, but the circumstantial evidence is pretty damning."
"Fucking A. Where's this guy's office? In Bay St. Louis?"
"Actually, his office is off Poydras in New Orleans."
I close my eyes and run my free hand over the back of my neck. The pieces lock together, making me clench my teeth.
"Reeves, you there?"
"Yeah."
"Listen, I know that tone. Whatever you're thinking, be smart about it. You can't just roll up and start making accusations. Especially since I essentially broke into their server to get this."
"I got it, Gabe. Thanks for the intel."
"Anytime. I'm here if you need me."
The line goes dead, and I lower the phone to my side.
I stand there for maybe thirty seconds, staring through the glass while the conclusion forms itself without any help from me.
Someone tried to fuck with Charli's business to force her into selling.
That someone made a mistake. No matter what happens after Friday, I won't stand by and let anyone hurt her.
I shift my shoulder and pain catches, but I ignore it.
My mind moves to this morning. I think about Charli at the kitchen table, her hands shaking as she held that tablet. The way her voice went tight when she read the email out loud. The way she held it together because that's what she does. Always.
I pull up Henderson’s name on the search engine. MedSouth Pediatric Partners comes up first, along with a list of affiliations and a headshot that’s supposed to put people at ease.
Board certifications. Clean bio. It's the kind of profile built to make parents, and these smaller practices trust him without asking too many questions.
The address is on Poydras, like Gabe said.
I tap it and send it to my GPS. The route loads, and he's only ten minutes from here. Let's go.
I push off the counter and grab my keys, my thumb running along the edge of them as I head for the door.
People like him stay behind desks. Paperwork. Calls. Layers that keep things slow and controlled. No one walks in and asks the question straight to their face.
My jaw sets as I head out. He thought he could lean on her, but he picked the wrong person to push.
I'm almost to the door when my phone buzzes. The sound cuts through my forward motion, and I stop with my hand on the doorknob to see if it's Charli.
It is.
Benjy wants to come. We'll need to run a few errands first, but can be on the road by five, which means we should get there around 6:30. Does that work?
Absolutely. I'll run over to the bunker and make sure everything is ready.
She didn't say they will stay, but if she's not even getting in until after six, there's no way she's going back tonight.
I check the time. I can still make my little visit. But I'll confirm he's there first.
I pull the website back up and click on the number.
"MedSouth Pediatric Partners, this is Jessica. How can I help you?"
"Hi there. I'm new to New Orleans and looking for therapy services for my son. I was hoping to come by and speak with someone today.”
My voice stays level, professional. The kind of tone that doesn't raise questions.
"Oh, that's wonderful. You sure can. What type of therapy are you looking for?"
"Physical and occupational. My son has some developmental delays, and we want to make sure he gets the right support. Someone recommended Dr. Henderson."
"Dr. Henderson doesn't see therapy patients, but he can meet with you and make sure you're set up with the ideal therapist. for your son's needs. And you're in luck, he's in the office today."
Papers shuffle in the background.
"I’m nearby. If he’s available, I can come in now."
"Come on by. Can I give him your name to let him know?"
"Reeves Stone."
"Perfect, Mr. Stone. Do you need directions to our office?"
"I've got the address on Poydras. Is that the correct location?"
"It is, indeed. We'll see you soon."
The building is clean and forgettable. Beige brick. Tinted glass. A small sign near the entrance that simply says MedSouth Pediatric Partners.
Exactly the kind of place that checks all the boxes for a corporate medical office.
I shift my shoulder and the pain catches. I ignore it.
Then I open the door and get out.
The receptionist glances up when I enter, all professional smile and scheduled efficiency.
We exchange pleasantries before she tells me Dr. Henderson is expecting me. I want to tell her I have a hunch he isn't.
She leads me through a hallway lined with stock photos of happy families. Generic children playing generic games. We stop at an office door marked with Henderson's name and credentials.
Henderson stands when I step into the office. He’s taller than I expected based on his headshot online. He's in his late forties, trim suit. He's the kind of man who keeps everything contained.
His grip is firm when we shake. Dry palm. Controlled pressure.
“Mr. Stone, have a seat.”
I take the chair across from his desk and sit back, one ankle resting over my knee. The leather creaks under my weight.
“Jessica said you’re looking for services for your son.”
“That’s right.” I rest my forearms on the arms of the chair. “He’s five. Some delays we want to get ahead of.”
Henderson nods and reaches for a folder on his desk. He opens it and turns it slightly in my direction, pages filled with charts and printed materials.
“Early intervention makes a significant difference. We coordinate physical and occupational therapy in-house or in-clinic, and partner with a few specialists depending on the need.”
He slides a brochure across the desk. His fingers are steady. Nails clean. No hesitation.
I pick it up, glance down at it, then set it on my thigh.
“How many practices do you have?”
“We currently have thirty practices in three states and will likely double that by this time next year. We are growing because we know how to make sure these children have the care they need,” he says proudly.
I nod once and lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees.
We go through it for a few more minutes. He talks. I listen. I ask enough to keep it moving, mainly to do recon on the kind of man I'm dealing with here.
His eyes stay on me the whole time. He’s used to this. Used to being the one in control of the conversation.
When he finishes, he folds his hands on the desk and waits. "I think I have the perfect therapist for your son. We can arrange a meeting with your son and the therapist before we get started to make sure you're comfortable."
I let the silence sit for a second longer than it needs to. Then I straighten in the chair.
“My son’s fine, as it turns out.”
Henderson’s expression doesn’t change right away, but his fingers press together a little tighter.
“I’m sorry?”
“I don’t have a son that needs services here.” I rest my hands on my thighs and hold his eyes. “I wanted to hear your sales pitch. I know you pride yourself on your sales pitch.”
He leans back slightly, the chair shifting under him.
“I’m not sure I understand.”
I shift forward again, forearms braced on my thighs, closing some of the distance between us.
“Charli Parsons.”
No immediate reaction. Then a slight tightening at his jaw.
“Pediatric Therapy Solutions,” I add.
“Ah, yes. Ms. Parsons. She's not part of our network, but she's a lovely therapist.”
“Cut the bullshit.”
I hold his eyes, not pushing, not filling the space. Just letting it sit there between us.
“I know what you're doing. You make an offer on these smaller practices, and if they don’t take it, then miraculously get an email from Medicaid about a complaint or billing issue, putting pressure on them to break. And then you come back in and save the day. Am I right?”
He doesn’t answer right away. His hand moves to the edge of the folder, straightening it even though it’s already square.
“That’s a serious accusation, Mr. Stone.”
I watch his hand as it stills on the paper, then bring my eyes back to his.
“I’m not here to argue about it, and I don't want to hear your denial. I know. Let's just leave it there.”
The room stays quiet except for the low hum of the air conditioning.
“What you’re going to do when I leave is step out of anything you’ve put in motion tied to Pediatric Therapy Solutions,” I say, holding his eyes. “No follow-up. No pressure. No contact with Charli Parsons.”
His lips press together.
“I don’t know what you think—”
I push up from the chair before he can finish, the legs scraping softly against the floor.
“I told you I don't want to hear it. Fix it,” I say, holding his eyes. “Or I make this a very expensive problem for you.”
He stands too, slower this time.
“This is highly inappropriate. If you have concerns—”
I step closer to the desk, close enough that he has to tilt his head back slightly.
“You picked the wrong one.” My hand comes down flat on the edge of his desk.
His Adam’s apple moves when he swallows. I want to thump it but I resist the urge.
“I’m going to ask you to leave.”
I straighten, smoothing my shirt at my waist.
“You won’t need to.”
I hold his gaze one more second, then turn and walk toward the door.